


give me a therapy, i'm a walking travesty

by wastefulreverie



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Gen, Kinda?, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastefulreverie/pseuds/wastefulreverie
Summary: After a chance encounter with the Box Ghost, Jazz puts her plan into action.
Relationships: Box Ghost & Jazz Fenton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68
Collections: Phic Phight!





	give me a therapy, i'm a walking travesty

**Author's Note:**

> "give me a therapy, I'm a walking travesty" - all time low

Jazz was lucky she always carried Danny's spare Fenton Thermos. It'd come in handy more times than she liked to admit, today especially. She didn't know what tempted him to come up through her floor—maybe he'd mistaken her room for Danny's?—but when the Box Ghost raised his arms in a sad attempt to frighten her, Jazz jammed the capture button. He'd entered the device wailing his revenge and claimed that she'd "rue the day she doubted his cardboard cubicles of _doom!"_

So, she set her ACT prep booklet aside and scouted out the lab for a non-invasive containment field. Her parents were in the midst of developing a new containment device that would neutralize ghosts with a constant current of electricity. Danny had been pale for hours after they demonstrated their prototype with a non-sentient blob ghost. Once they finished developing the new devices and moved on to their next project, Jazz planned to wipe them all out under the radar. Electrocution was cruel for any ghost to endure but she'd never forgive herself if Mom and Dad eventually caught Danny in an electric field. When she'd told him her plan and he was more than eager to give her his blessing.

After a few minutes of rummaging through one of Mom's several weapon cabinets, Jazz found one of their original containment fields that simply created an enclosed area via ghost-shields. She pocketed the device, brought it up to her room, and set it up around her desk. Translucent green barriers rose from the floor and Jazz had half a mind to press against them to check if they were stable before remembering that she couldn't touch them.

She stepped through the ghost shield to the other side of her bedroom, where she found an old tape recording device. Danny made fun of her for keeping so many technological relics but she was fond of antiquated devices; something was charming about them in a nostalgic way. Mom liked to joke that she was an old soul and Jazz was inclined to believe her if the idea of reincarnation didn't send goosebumps up her arms. If ghosts were real, what did it mean for souls who got another chance at life? She could run the ramifications over in her head all day if she tried but Jazz didn't particularly want an existential crisis. No, it was better to keep a clear mind than dwell on muddling thoughts. That was her personal philosophy, after all.

She readied the tape recorder and stepped back inside the containment field with the Thermos at hand. After leaning back into her chair and positioning the tape behind her, she unclasped the cap on the device and let the wispy form of the Box Ghost unfurl before her.

"Ha! No _human_ can contain I—the lord of all things cardboard! Quiver before me, fragile living girl!"

Jazz eyed the specter up and down, finding little threat to behold. His worn, navy overalls juxtaposed against his azure skin like a dulled pencil on colored paper. His gray beanie made the top of his head appear to be cone-shaped and covered most of his ash-colored hair. Not to mention, his beady red eyes contributed little to his imposing visage and Jazz wondered how he'd made it this far in his afterlife believing that he was cut out to hurt others, to terrorize. She could tell that those eyes held no malice and little to no greed; she'd seen her fair share of malevolent ghosts and could recognize one in an instant.

The question was why the Box Ghost was pretending to be someone he wasn't. She understood that the many intricacies of ghost society were far beyond what she could comprehend, but Jazz was dead set on getting to the bottom of her newest charge. She wanted to learn more about ghosts and how they thought, not just as _specimens_ or _paranatural creatures_ —she wanted to understand individuals! More than that, she wanted to help.

"I have another proposal. How about we talk instead?"

His face slackened. "What?"

Jazz wore her best knowing smile. "I want to get to know you better and I want you to understand _yourself_ better. You don't need to fall back into all your bravado, just sit—float—back and have a chat with me. I promise once we're finished I'll let you back into the Ghost Zone or have a go at my brother if that's what you really want, but I can't promise he'll be in a good mood today."

"You're weirding me out, human… but I agree to the conditions of your chat!"

"I'm glad to hear that." She really was. She wasn't entirely sure that he would cooperate, so his easy compliance was a relief. "Would you mind telling me _why_ you like boxes?"

Without much prompting, the small blue man launched into a tirade of his past ambitions and hardships. From what he was saying, it was easy to see the pressure he felt to perform; to act like he was _strong_. He wasn't a strong ghost at all, he was just the spirit of a jaded courier that had the ability to control shipping materials due to the nature of his death. With little other option, he embraced his identity to survive in a dog-eat-dog society. Jazz could see that somewhere along the way he'd lost himself, resorting to terrorizing the human realm to feel like he was doing everything 'right'. It's what the other ghosts did, after all.

"I think weekly sessions to discuss your self-perception and identity would be very beneficial to your own wellbeing, Box Ghost. I know time is hard in the Ghost Zone, but do you think you could visit me every Wednesday afternoon or so?"

"I guess?"

It would take some work to break through his mental barrier and rebuild the well-meaning man lost beneath his near-permanent veneer. Jazz was confident she could do it. She had helped humans overcome their identity struggles, why not ghosts?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for natyouraveragenerd's Phic Phight Prompt: The Box Ghost tries to spook Jazz, but they wind up having a therapy session together instead. She wants to understand why he tries to be scary all the time.
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://wastefulreverie.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
